


You knew the game

by EvanJosten



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Gen, I'm really sorry for writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 21:29:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15518967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvanJosten/pseuds/EvanJosten
Summary: What would've happened if Baltimore had gone as planned for Nathan Wesninski is a path full of tears and regrets. One of the hardest things I've ever wrote and kept secret for a long time.





	You knew the game

"Thank you for everything, you were amazing"  
  
Those were the last words Neil Josten said to Andrew. It was too early for him to know it would also be the last words from Abram as well. The staged riot had been a great distraction to separate him from the rest of his teammates and go unnoticed. Soon enough, he was in the car packed with his father's associates. A dashboard lighter burning across his cheek, a knife digging through old cuts, creating new ones. Threats spat to his face as the clue of where he was being led to dawned on him. Nathaniel cursed himself mentally for not doing anything about the ominous countdown that had been texted to him. He hadn't cared enough to find out how someone had gotten hold of his phone number.  
  
The switch of cars done, he struggled hard to find a position that allowed him to breathe evenly despite the sense of dread and claustrophobia. It didn't help that Lola kept the tip of her blade pressed against the skin of his thigh, close to his crotch. Nathaniel could feel the warmth of her breath on the side of his neck. They were too close to one another for it to be safe for him to move without getting cut once more. Counting the seconds in his head in every language he knew was all he had to keep himself from tipping over into madness or to pay attention to the vile words Lola threw his way like venom that always found its course to its target. The woman must've known something when she finally stopped talking. It was also when they finally arrived to their destination. Nathaniel's final stop.  
  
Regardless of the state he was currently in, the policemen driving pulled Nathaniel out of the trunk briskly, turning a blind eye to all the injuries that had been inflicted to him. It was obvious that their behavior was money induced. Any policeman that wasn't crooked would react like that, Nathaniel thought to himself and the thought that followed was that the person behind his disappearance was the one that had forced his mother and him to go on the run, away from his claws. The hair on the back of his neck rose at the same time his stomach rebelled. He recognised the house he was being brought into. This was the night he would pay for his foolishness and everything good he had gotten since he'd arrived at Palmetto State University. The walk through the small entrance by the side of the house happened right after he witnessed a last exchange of money from Lola to the drivers. It wasn't the place for him to find dislike in what happened as he was bound to fight for his survival but still he experienced hatred towards his father's ways, which implied once again something he always knew. The law couldn't save a case like his, especially when they could be influenced so easily.  
  
Nathaniel was pushed and pulled down the stairs only to be dragged up another set of them. The stench of bleach grew stronger and stronger as they walked, Lola and Romero grabbing his son's arms tightly, fingers digging in his flesh, creating more bruises than the ones already subsiding against his skin. The bleach smell burned Nathaniel's nostrils, another painful reminder that there would be nothing left of him after the ordeal would be done, no blood, no recognizable body parts, no fingerprints and no teeth. All of those would be thanks to the crew that were to dispose of him. There would be no possible escape, which he'd known the second he saw Lola and her brother waiting for him at the court. He had been foolish in his obsession with Riko Moriyama and this was how he'd pay the price. Nathaniel bowed his head, partly in recognition of those thoughts and Romero pushing it forward in an attempt of politeness to the Butcher of Baltimore. The coldness of his father's voice felt like nothing had changed except that Nathan's time in prison had fueled the anger he was filled with.  
  
"My son, what a delightful reunion."  
  
Each syllable sent a shiver down his spine as Nathaniel ultimately knew the intent behind such words. There was nothing he could say that could convey his emotions properly as he chose instead to spit to his father's face, which resulted to Lola taking a lunge towards him, to which Nathan responded with a raised hand to tell her to stop, that he would be the first to deliver a blow to his son in their house. With a tilt of his chin, he turned to Romero who approached with Nathaniel's father's favoured weapons, a dull axe and a freshly sharpened cleaver. Having seen how ruthless the Butcher could be right before going on the run, it didn't take long for Nathaniel to add two and two and know what waited for him even before his father spoke again. "Now, is that a way to treat your father? I am fully aware Lola explained how she would dispose of you but things are going to go a little differently. First I will make sure you can never run away ever again, then we'll see how I feel."  
  
Nathaniel witnessed Romero handing the axe to the Butcher, who then proceeded to pass a finger across the blade, surely testing how it would react against bones and muscles. The older Wesninski took a firmer hold of the handle as he readied himself to make the first blow. Nathaniel inhaled sharply as he prepared for the pain to erupt inside him once more. Just before the axe ruined his first knee, he shut his eyes tight as he didn't want to witness the ruination of his body. A flame burst from his kneecap to his thigh, a pain that had no equal that he knew of. Tears threatened to spill over, barely contained as there was an intense throb in his legs. A satisfying grunt escaped his father's lungs as the axe's blade was rested against Nathaniel's other leg. It was his father's work to be theatrical as he worked his way through his victims.  
  
"That one was easy, there isn't even reason to cry. Your mother would call you out for what you are, a proper disgrace to the last name you bear, although I recall you don't go by mine anymore."  
  
Fear meshed with anger inside Nathaniel's mind, both emotions as strong as the other. There was ice in his father's stare, intertwined with intent, his desire to kill almost too obvious, palpable. His father was right for one part, it was easy to forget the pain if he thought of who he left behind, the family he willingly abandoned in order to save them. And his courage was only thanked in the spat words of someone who barely understood the concept of family, what it meant and implied. As the pressure against his other knee cap increased, Nathaniel's... No, he thought, as he remembered that night when he'd told Andrew the only bit of truth about him that hadn't ever changed. Andrew, him who had given him everything he'd needed until the countdown. They could've been more, he was fully aware of it now and the simple thought of it helped forgetting about the pain until a sound thwack pierced his silence, which drew a sharp yelp from his throat. Abram's whole body was shivering now and the young man was too focussed on his legs that he didn't see Romero advancing on him. He couldn't even bring himself to thrash against the older man stuffing his mouth with a sock, to keep any loud sound to emanate from the house. What he realized too late was the sickening sweetness in his mouth, telling him he would be drugged through the torture, which was in some sort of twisted way a blessing from the man he used to call father. The rest would be a fight against consciousness, some bits of the events to come he wouldn't be aware of.  
  
It took what felt like an eternity for the tendrils of drug to start kicking in, as most of Abram's mind was clouded with ruthless pain, a hammer against his temples, cheeks, battered hands and butchered legs. What an irony that everything started and would finish with the man who happened to be his father, a man who he no longer had anything in common. Abram had been the renegade son, the one on the run, the one who had disregarded everything taught by his late mother. He would now be only remembered as an Exy player who struggled to keep his mouth shut in dire times, who had brought his load of scandals into the NCAA. But most importantly, he would be remembered as one of the Foxes and his former team would remember him as the cement that had brought the players together.  
  
That thought had been fleeting in his mind, the young man however hung unto it and used to fight his way to consciousness. As he proceeded to do so, a new flare of pain resonated across his skin, a shallow cut he hoped but at a place that could be life-threatening be it deep enough. Fortunately enough for him, it wasn't yet the case. It simply was a knife that had sliced alongside his throat, parallel to his jugular. It was likely to be one of the twins' handiwork, way too delicate to be his father's hand at work. Slowly, Abram managed to flutter his eyes open, drinking in his surroundings, a small sense of surprise as he realised he was alone for now. Knowing what position he was in, chances were someone was waiting downstairs, for the Butcher and his associates to come back. He could almost feel the footsteps echo through his bones as the person likely was walking back and forth in the living-room. The room in which he was appeared to be smeared with blood everywhere. His blood. Abram thought of himself like a mess, his face wounded beyond what he remembered, as his left brow arcade felt swollen.

* * *

The peace that reigned in his surroundings was soon brought to a halt as numerous footsteps could be heard closer to where he was resting. Abram could feel a sizeable pool of thick liquid all around him, of what he knew was his own blood. The crack of the door widened as his father's crew slithered in, reeking of grease and salt. The smell was telling of where they'd been, though he didn't try to place it. His temporary break from the infliction of fresh pain was a favorite tactic of Lola's he remembered from his childhood. Leaving her victim alone to wonder what could possibly come next added to the torture of the ordeal.

Abram's consciousness was something barely holding by a thread, and his energy level was already dwindling down. It wasn't helping that his blood loss left him feeling lightheaded and nauseous, a fact he knew was a worsening sign for his already-sorry state. Watched closely by his captors, Abram struggled his way into an arguably more comfortable sitting position. Each painful inch he moved brought broad smiles to the faces turned toward him. The best decision probably would've been to fake being asleep, but nothing could tell him if he would be treated worse than before as he appeared to be out of the possibility of fighting against the knives and fists.

Instead, Abram backed himself in a corner and thought of all the lessons he had sat through with Andrew. Some he’d barely paid attention to, some he’d listen to at an increased level. Andrew had spent a considerable amount of time trying to crack into Abram’s thick skull and teach him things that would prove useful in terms of self-defense. Truth was, Andrew knew close to nothing about who Abram truly was, and after that night, the chances that his identity would be revealed were pretty thin, even if he considered Kevin sharing what he knew. Taking a defensive stance wouldn't prove to be successful, especially with the state he was in.

The first voice he heard was Lola's. As she moved toward him, her steps were catlike; subtle yet efficient. Her height allowed Lola to stride her way quickly across the room. What little light filtered into the room seemed drawn to the knife in her hand, flashing off the silver metal in a menacing glimmer to shone straight into his eyes. She approached Abram with a malicious, ecstatic expression on her face. She knew exactly what she was going to do it him, and she wanted him to know it.  
  
Too soon, she was kneeling beside him, her blade pressed against Abram's throat, whispering words that took too long to find a home inside Abram's mind. Earlier that same afternoon, Lola had been pretty explicit about the agonies she was planning to inflict on him but now, she was uncovering the entirety of the scheme. It something way bigger than what he could've imagined. Every whispered detail was more painful than his wounds. Fear was a far more effective weapon than any blade, and Lola knew it.

Earlier, the Butcher had said the Moriyamas wouldn't interfere. Abram was sorely aware of the truth behind that small statement. They’d long wanted Abram to be disposed of, and now that Nathan was free, there was no better arrangement than to let the Butcher do what he did best. Lola was also in league with Kengo and Ichirou, which was why she had been the one to come back.  
  
"See kid? That's the whole circle tying itself. Your dad doesn't know everything for once.” The glee of this fact rang through her voice as clear as day. “I'm the one who holds the biggest piece of the deal this time, Junior. Nathan left hours ago and it would've been too predictable if he had been the one to get rid of you, especially considering how much he wanted you gone."  
  
Abram was fighting for enough air to fill his lungs for him to form a cohesive thought.  His mind was swimming with things he wanted to say, but none of them could filter through his brain and into his mouth. It was hard especially considering his whole body ached from the lacerations and burns he had been inflicted. Inhaling sharply, his throat moving underneath Lola's knife, Abram turned and glared at the woman with all the vitriol his gaze could hold. After all, he had been reaped from the chance of living a successful life many times over. What he then said had the most venom, a way to express himself he often kept for certain kinds of people. Sometimes it reminded him of his father but this time, the anger conveyed by his words was worse than what Lola might've expected.  
  
"Turning your coat that easily? And to say my father thinks you're one of his most loyal team workers. Will be a real disappointment when he finds out. Maybe you will be the one to leave first."  
  
Abram barely had the time to finish his sentence before he had been clocked. Fireworks of pain exploded across his vision as he received a fist to his face, directly on the spot that was still marked with fresh scars and charred flesh. Lola had an animalistic snarl stretching her lips and loose strands of hair falling upon her face as she fixed her glare on Abram.

"You," she hissed, "have the Wesninski features, but the Hartford mouth. Of course." Lola scoffed then followed by seizing Abram's jaw and digging her claws in the skin, her grasp made of iron, unbreakable. "Kengo thinks you're not worth an investment anymore. And neither will Ichirou. That's right, the old man is dying."  
  
Abram's features must've been shaping his surprise. He witnessed the pleasure creeping on Lola's face, like a mask she was glad to adorn her visage with. The woman's manic grin was more fangs than teeth, viciousness blazing in her irises. Truly, she was devoted to her cause, enough so she had lost herself in it.

Abram had seen the news like everyone else, though he’d thought Kengo Moriyama would recover, even if the last trip to the hospital was the man's second. As the truth had been told to him, Abram fought the urge to laugh. Riko had been fighting tooth and nail for a piece of his father's attention and now he would get nothing at all. Life wasn't cruel, it was the people in it, and yet, sometimes, life got its revenge, in a better way than anyone could proceed to obtain.  
  
As Lola witnessed the small smile on Abram's lips, she leaned forward, pressing her knife more firmly against his neck, blade digging in the skin next to his windpipe. It wouldn't take much for her to perform a gash deep enough that his life would be sucked from his body before he would know but it wasn't in her habit. Instead, the woman lowered the knife in a threatening manner, and with her hand that had been holding Abram's jaw, she let go and grabbed his right wrist instead, lifting to their eyes' height. Detaching her blade from his neck, she rested it on his palm, cutting a slice from the middle finger to the base of his hand. Abram's hand felt as if it had been set ablaze; fire had been ignited within his veins and it took him most of his self-control not to do more than wince at the pain. The worst was that Lola didn't spend time enjoying the sight of the blood of her victim sliding down his wrist unto the floor, she dragged her knife upward, carving a V on the inside of Abram's hand, then reached for the back of his hand, slicing her way through the space between two fingers, only stopping to examine where she would continue her damage.  
  
"Your hands could've brought you a lot, which is why I will only harm you in a way that will incapacitate your use of them but otherwise you will keep them."  
  
It dawned upon Abram that this was what Lola considered as kindness, regardless of how his legs had been butchered earlier, cut at the knees with an axe. The intensity of the pain was less important than at the moment of the hit though it was mostly due to how long Abram had been enduring the pain for a while now and how new injuries were currently clouding his judgement. Abram barely nodded before he felt the knife carving his skin even deeper than before. He barely managed to hide his yelp of pain, declaring how much he was struggling with his emotion. His sight got clouded by pain, and he couldn’t decipher anything anymore, only the searing pain that became more and more unbearable.

* * *

 

Darkness had swallowed him whole again, though it had been induced this time by pain clouding thoughts and his actual feelings. Abram felt as if he was drowning in pain, no longer aware of his surroundings. He was too far gone under the surface of what was bearable for him to notice how the house was prey to bullets, them being fired everywhere, until his uncle noticed him. At that point, the older man took matters in his hands. It was a showdown waiting to happen. Hartfords against the Moriyamas and their men. Lola had already been brought down, and her Boss was going to know what had happened in Baltimore, if he ever dared to come back to the city, and claim it his territory again. History proved he hadn’t been wise, but maybe the time in jail would have cleared his head slightly.

Stuart Hartford knelt next to Abram, checking the boy’s pulse. It was somehow still going, feeble but constant. It wasn’t too late to call an ambulance and bring Abram in intensive care. With that being realized, Abram’s uncle raised his hand and called for one of the men who helped him in the ambush. Quickly, he instructed the henchman to call the emergency units waiting on standby down the street. His team didn’t have forever to intervene and the arrival of medics meant that Stuart nor anyone who accompanied him could stay there any longer. They would have to leave Abram behind until the rescue came. The whole scene was pitiful, the young man resting in a growing pool of his own blood, looking lifeless, and maybe there was a little more to it than only the looks.

* * *

 

Minutes, hours went by, and Abram had been carried in extremis in the Intensive Care Unit of the nearest hospital, and he was still fighting for his life. The odds weren’t looking great but the doctors and nurses did all they could to save him. Sometimes it wasn’t enough, and this was one of those times. Twice did the medical team need to use the defibrillator, and while it had succeeded once, the second attempt proved to be a failure. The collapse of Abram’s body against the operation table left an echo in the room, as everyone around him was taking a step back, giving up on his case, at the same time that his life was nothing more than a flat line on a monitor.

There wasn’t much in his file, but his face was still recognizable for anyone who took some sort of interest in sports, or watched Kathy Ferdinand’s show. The head nurse made some research for Nathaniel Wesninski’’s recent whereabouts as it was who he had been known as when brought in, considering how he had been found in the house he had grown in until he was ten. Some name changes appeared in their research, the latest being Neil Josten, as he had lived in Millport and then in South Carolina on an university campus. In reference was the number of the man the nurse assumed was the coach and proceeded to call him to announce the news. It would be a gruesome description, but it was custom to bring justice to the deceased patients, especially when looking like a mess, from the inside to the outside.

**Author's Note:**

> That sounds sadistic but I hope you've had as much tears as I did while writing this. Thank you for reading, and if you liked it, leave a kudos, maybe?


End file.
